


His Fiery Loins

by LadyCyprus, SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, modern-ish AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCyprus/pseuds/LadyCyprus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Because only her kiss can extinguish the fire in his loins...





	1. His Fiery Loins

 

_He finds her alone on the balcony of her private chambers, winter winds whipping her skirts, hair like a summer sunset swirling around her lovely face. She seems to know he’s there before he says a word, almost as if she senses his presence, but when she turns in his direction she gasps in both delight and surprise._

_“I thought I’d never see your sapphire eyes again, my love.”_

_“And I thought I’d never see your handsome face.”_

_He wants to touch her- it’s obvious to anyone how much he wants to hold her, how badly he longs to kiss the dew from her rose red lips of milk and honey. But for now he keeps his distance, choosing instead to caress her every curve with only his eyes._

_“You’ve grown.”_

_She nods and holds her arms away from her so he can see her fully. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”_

_“A woman now. My woman?”_

_She nods again. “Since the day I met you.”_

_Her words are spoken as a promise, a pledge of true love once lost now found, and he smiles as he runs a strong hand down her naked limb. Her creamy bosom is heaving._

“Oh for fuck’s sake… _”_

“Sandor...”

“Nobody talks like this. Lips of milk and honey? Hair like a summer sunset? Creamy bosom? I don’t even know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean!”

“Well _I_ think it’s beautiful!”

“You have questionable taste.”

“Obviously,” she clipped primly, hands going to her hips. “Since I asked _you_ to help me practice."

“I _am_ helping,” he grumbled in protest, snapping the pages out in front of him and trying again.

_“Come away with me. Pack your things, we’ll leave now.”_

_“But I cannot! I’m to marry the new lord on the morrow!”_

_“On the morrow? How can you marry another when you belong to me?”_

_“I have to! My family has been disgraced, this is the only way to save their name!”_

_“I understand.” He says it only to make her feel better, because he does not understand; no one has ever expected him to understand anything when his broad, muscular chest has always solved all his problems. He is angry now- angry at the injustices society has foisted on the delicate shoulders of the woman he loves. “But if you love me as you say you do then you’ll bestow upon me your maiden’s gift.”_

_“I want to- oh, how I want to! But if I don’t go to him a virgin then my family will die!”_

“That’s stupid.”

“Sandor…”

“Well it _is._ What kind of fucked up laws are these people operating under?”

“I don’t know, I’m just following the script. Come on, you said you would help me practice.”

“I _am_ helping,” he insisted. “I just… don’t understand why I had to take my shirt off.”

Her eyes went wide.

“It helps me get in character,” she explained weakly. “Now, can you please not interrupt?”

“Yeah, alright,” he muttered, looking down at the pages in his hand.

_“A kiss, my sweet, before I leave you. Only your kiss can extinguish the fire in my loins.”_

_“Oh, but what if a kiss is not enough?”_

_She says it like she’s concerned but it’s obvious she’s not, obvious she wants him too. She licks her lips when she notices the prominent bulge in his breeches; he notices her noticing him and notices her right back. Her nipples are hard, rosy little pebbles pressing against the pure whiteness of her sheer shift; below that he can clearly make out moist dark curls at the juncture of her thighs. He can’t stop staring at her, images of thrusting his mighty meat sword deep into her quivering mound nearly driving him to madness._

_“If you knew how I hungered for you, how I thirst for a taste of your honey, how I wish to drown my turgid member in the well of your most secret place.”_

_His confession makes her blush._

_“I hunger for you as well. Many a night I sought my own pleasure, fingers teasing my unsullied little nub, your name on my lips."_

“Well, now it’s just porn.”

“Sandor!”

“Not to mention that this guy is kind of a dick.”

“I don’t need you to judge the script, alright?  I just need you to help me practice!”

“I _am_ helping, it’s not my fault this script is making me so turgid.” He paused a moment after intentionally using one of those _beautiful_ words she loved so much, just to see her reaction, but when she froze he matched her confused look with one of his own. “That means angry, right?”

“Not exactly,” she laughed.

“No?” he cocked his head at her. “What’s it mean, then?”

“Oh my god, you’re so cute.”

“I… what?”

 _Cute?_   He narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious of the way she was blushing, the way she looked away from him, the way she lapsed into embarrassed silence, and for the first time wondered if there was some ulterior motive at play here _._   

“Is there any actual bodice ripping in this bodice ripper?”

“Would you like it if there was?” she asked, just a shade above husky.

Sandor Clegane was not a stupid man; he knew way more than people gave him credit for, and even more than he let on. For example, he knew she wasn’t acting at the moment- he’d seen her act before and the girl was not destined for any Academy Awards. He knew that he was the first person she’d asked to practice with her, and surely that must mean something. He knew that taking his shirt off was far from necessary, as was the tiny dress she was wearing that squeezed her tits up so high they damn near spilled out of the neckline, the very definition of a ‘creamy bosom.’ He sure as fuck knew what turgid meant, no matter what he may have told her.

And he knew that for some reason this was easier for her, to play this part with him even if it was stupid and mildly inappropriate. And maybe it was easier for him, too, to protest and complain and interrupt, to pretend he hated it when he really kinda didn’t mind. And hell, as long as this was going somewhere…  

_“I thought I’d never see your sapphire eyes again, my love.”_

_“And I thought I’d never see your handsome face.”_


	2. Now with extra flames of passion!

“Lucky number 33,” Sansa announced, peeling a sticker from its backing and affixing it to her blouse. “Oh god, I’m so nervous.”

He still wasn’t at all certain how he’d been roped into going to this stupid audition in the first place, and now that he was there he felt all sorts of out-of-place in his work boots and blue jeans, men and women flitting about dramatically in the way only theater nerds could. The ladies had been given numbers while the men had been given letters, and it took only three auditions to realize they only had option A (a gray-haired man of considerable girth wearing a maroon ascot) and option B (a wispy teenager whose voice hadn’t even changed yet, also in a maroon ascot), both of which were truly terrible.  Sandor wasn’t sure if he felt sorrier for whatever girl was cast opposite this leading man… or the audience who had to sit through it.

By the time it was Sansa’s turn the directors were showing an obvious preference for Option A.  Sandor watched from the wings as the man’s bored monotone parried Sansa’s overly-chirpy sing-song; they looked ridiculous together, and sounded even worse.

“No, she’s all wrong,” a voice interrupted from the darkness of the theater.

“I wouldn’t say _all_ wrong,” another voice drawled in protest. “She _looks_ the part.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“True. If only we could figure out a way for her to keep her mouth shut.”

“Should I keep going?” Sansa asked awkwardly, her face turning a painful shade of red.

“No, I think we’re done here, sweetling. If we ever need someone to look good but act terribly, we have your number.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Sandor’s blood was boiling. As if their disgusting attitudes weren’t bad enough it was only made worse by Sansa’s meek acceptance of the criticism, shoulders slumped in disappointment while she turned to leave, and before he knew it he was storming out onto that stage to tell them _exactly_ what he thought of them.

“Hey! You think you asswipes can learn some fucking manners before you stomp all over the next kid that comes in here? Or is this pathetic little power trip too important for your overinflated egos?”

“It’s okay, Sandor.  They’re just doing their jobs.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” he hissed angrily at her, though it wasn’t _her_ he was angry at; he could never agree with the way she was treated when she looked up at him like that, tears rimming her eyes not quite big enough to fall, completely devastated. Squinting past the stage lights and out into the darkness, Sandor searched for the source of all that destruction-- a round bald-headed man in a checkered ascot sitting next to a thin goateed man… also in an ascot.  

Did everyone around here wear an ascot?

“Would you _look_ at him?” the bald one stage-whispered.

“He’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Do we have your audition form, Mr...”

“Oh hell no,” Sandor growled back. “I’m not auditioning for this shit.”

“No? Are you certain?”

“Very fucking certain.”

“What would make you change your mind?” goatee hummed casually. “Casting your girlfriend? We could be amenable to that.”

 _She’s not my girlfriend,_ he almost answered (was _thisclose_ to answering) but before the words could slip out he looked down at Sansa... her wide, hopeful eyes... hands clutched at her chest... lips fluttering _please please please please please..._ dammit.  

“If I say yes-- and that’s a big ‘if’-- what do I get out of it?”

“Name your price, my man,” baldy said; grinned. “We’ll make it work.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sandor, I just picked up the revised scripts, I thought maybe we could review them together.”

“Right now?” he asked, looking around his decidedly untidy apartment.

“Sure, why not?”

“Alright, well, give me a few minutes before you… is that you knocking on my door?”

“Open up, I’m getting antsy!”

He’d severely underestimated the girl’s enthusiasm, because she never stopped knocking while he lumbered around and tucked debris out of the way. Twenty seconds later when he finally opened the door Sansa spilled into his apartment before he could invite her, filling his gloomy personal space with bright chatter.  

“I’m _dying_ to see the changes, I was so surprised when you said you wanted creative freedom over the script, it didn’t seem like something you’d really have any interest in but then again I guess none of this is really your thing, is it, and oh gosh listen to me babbling on and on I’m just… I’m _so excited!_  My first big part!  Isn’t it _exciting?”_

“Uh huh, very exciting.”

“I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to me,” she sighed, both hands pressing the manilla envelope over her heart, more dramatic than he’d ever seen her but meaning every word. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Yeah… you’re welcome.”

And after one more grateful smile that was starting to make him feel guilty, she ripped open the envelope and presented him with his copy of the revised script, flipping quickly to the first page.

“Oh, the names are different,” she said, expression falling. “Wait… is this a joke?”

“Nope. Shall we?”

_He finds her alone on the balcony of her private chambers, winter winds whipping her skirts, hair like a summer sunset swirling around her lovely face._

_“Lady Casansa! Tis I, Aleksandor, come to rescue you!”_

_She turns and gasps at his proclamation, so startled by the sudden appearance of this familiar but impressive man that her dressing gown falls right off, revealing nothing underneath but satin smallclothes and a lace bustier. Her nipples are noticeably rigid; her creamy bosom is heaving._

“I don’t see any heaving going on over there.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

_"I thought I’d never see your sapphire eyes again! Or your beautiful face.” _

_She nods sadly. He wants her; she knows he wants her, and he knows that she knows that he wants her because she licks her lips as she runs one delicate finger along her collarbone to her cleavage and lower, caressing her round and firm breasts, teasing him._

_“Did you miss me while I was gone?”_

_She nods again, sadder than before, creamy bosom heaving even more, nipples noticeably rigid._

_“Then run away with me.  Pack your things, we can leave now.”_

_She shakes her head at this- she may be happy to see him, but she is also sad she cannot have him._

“So I don’t have any lines _at all?”_

“It didn’t really make any sense from a creative standpoint.”

“You made that up.”

_“But I thought you missed me!  Alas, if you knew the way I hungered to lick the honey from your lips then you would know how much I care! Have you truly never imagined me buried inside you in that dance that only lovers do?”_

_She agrees with a rapid nod of her head, desperate for him to believe her even as she blushes prettily at his scandalous words, her eyes raking over his body to the evidence of his appetite for her, straining against the laces of his breeches. She seems interested, but also hesitant. Aleksandor is very confused._

_“I’m very confused! Surely there is some way for you to tell me what you want of me!”_

_An idea comes to Lady Casansa. In a striptease meant to mesmerize him she slowly removes her bustier, hoping he’ll understand her meaning, but he still isn’t_ _quite_ _sure what it is she’s trying to tell him.  So she communicates in the only way she knows how- by cupping her own ample bosom and moaning, her nipples noticeably rigid and aching to be caressed.  Carefully he places a hand over her naked breast.  She orgasms immediately._

“Wow, Aleksandor sure has a magical touch.”

“Doesn’t he?”

_She’s never experienced such blinding pleasure before; she orgasms for so long that it takes her several minutes of naked panting to recover, milk-white breasts rising and falling at every gasp, nipples noticeably rigid. When at last she is ready for more she looks up at him with eyes that say ‘no man will ever be able to excite me as much as you.’  He understands and places his other hand over her other breast.  She orgasms again, even longer and harder than last time, so overwhelmed by ecstasy that she cannot hide her moans, crying out into that silent night, writhing under his enormous hands._

“Sandor.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t _have_ to put your hands on my breasts.”

“I’m just following the script.  Speaking of which, can you hold it up for me?  My hands are sort of occupied.”

“Oh my god, you’re so evil.”

“Evil?  I thought I was cute.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, her giggles bouncing his hands where they still rested comfortably on her _ample_ bosom just as the script told him to.  When she finally calmed down she dropped her hand to her side and peeked up at him, blushing _prettily_ just as the script told _her_ to.       

“I believe you’re taking advantage of your position, Lord Aleksandor.”

He shook his head.  “Not a lord.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would be,” she agreed softly, barely above a whisper. “Is there any kissing in this script?”  

“Would you like it if there was?”  

It was more than he hoped for, if he was being entirely honest, when she peeled his hands from her breasts and pulled them around her waist, stepping into him and going up onto her toes for a (completely unscripted) kiss.

So overall he’d say his little experiment had been a success. Which meant he could call the directors tomorrow and tell them they could go ahead and change that stupid fucking script.

                                                                     

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork and inspiration by LadyCyprus  
> Questionable words by SassyEggs


End file.
